


pain is a temporary guest

by SkyeBean



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e11 The Drawing of the Dark, Gen, Minor Character Death, Murder, dark-ish merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28768230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeBean/pseuds/SkyeBean
Summary: Merlin has already fallen so far; stained his hands with so much blood.What's a few more drops?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	pain is a temporary guest

**Author's Note:**

> yeah...i think this is my first hurt/no comfort fic? i'm not really sure where it came from, but...enjoy?

_Arthur cannot die._

This is the only thought going through Merlin’s head as he makes his way through the castle. Slowly, ever so slowly. Almost in a trance.

_Arthur cannot die._

Mordred is angry. Merlin has seen it in his face, twisting into a snarl; has felt it in the cold wall he’d been slammed into; has sensed it in the claws finally emerging from his magic.

Claws that he’s been expecting this whole time. Claws that he hasn’t noticed the absence of, until now.

Mordred isn’t just angry. He’s _dangerous_.

_Arthur cannot die_.

But Merlin has done a lot of bad things in his time, and even he won’t kill a man who has yet to commit a crime.

He won’t let himself. Because—at this point, it is ‘won’t’.

With everything he’s done, everything he’s intending to do, he no longer thinks in terms of ‘can’t’.

There are lots of things he’d once thought he couldn’t do.

_But Arthur cannot die_.

Merlin’s waved past by the guards who know him; trust him.

They don’t really know him.

No one in Camelot does. Not even Gaius.

Mordred thinks he knows – thinks that because he’s learnt of Emrys, he has any comprehension of what Merlin has done to make it through the years; to get Arthur through the years.

Mordred has no idea.

_Arthur will not die._

Merlin will not let anyone lay a finger on Arthur, and if Kara is executed then—

Mordred’s going to do a lot more than lay a finger on him.

The world is coiled in wait; Merlin can feel the magic swirling in the air, dust kicked up as destiny’s gaze slides to Camelot.

To this moment.

_Arthur will not die_.

Arthur thinks that Mordred would understand in time, and forgive him; Arthur does not know the rage coursing through Mordred’s bones, through his magic.

Arthur does not know of Mordred’s destiny.

_I cannot let Arthur die_.

Mordred had told Merlin to let them leave in peace. He had said that they would cause no harm. But—prophecies don’t lie. And if Mordred leaves, he will find Morgana eventually.

_I cannot let Arthur die._

Kara shoots to her feet when she sees Merlin approaching. “What are you doing here?” she demands. The words are spat, like a threat.

Merlin can see her vulnerability, can feel it roiling in her magic.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at her. The woman for whom Mordred will leave Arthur.

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you,” she says. “Standing at the King’s side. His _servant_.” She spits on the ground at his feet. “I won’t tell you anymore.”

_I cannot let Arthur die_.

“Just one thing,” Merlin says, his voice soft.

The calm before the storm.

“Ha!” Kara’s face contorts in a gruesome smile. “I won’t tell a servant of Pendragon a single thing.”

Merlin considers his words, then slowly asks, “You will not reconsider?”

“ _Never_.”

_I cannot let Arthur die._

When Merlin was just sixteen, he remembers staring up at the great walls of Camelot and thinking ‘things will be better here.’

When Merlin was sixteen and a half, he killed for the first time. It hadn’t been messy, or difficult; just a single thought, and then Edwin Muirden was no more.

It had haunted his dreams for weeks.

_I cannot let Arthur die_.

Merlin’s already fallen so far, killed so many. What’s one more?

_I will not let Arthur die._

It takes a couple of words and a flash of gold for the cell door to open, and that has Kara backing away with shock.

_I will not let Arthur die._

It takes two steps to enter the cell.

_I will not let Arthur die._

It takes a single thought to send his dagger slicing through Kara’s chest.

_I will not let Arthur die._

She falls with a gasp, tumbling back as her eyes flash golden, trying to heal the wound. Blood spreads across her tunic, and Merlin moves fast enough to catch her before she hits the floor.

“Y-you,” she gasps out. “You’re one of us.”

Merlin sighs, and shakes his head.

He’s been called a druid before; he’s been called a sorcerer before. But—he isn’t anything of those things.

He’s _Emrys_.

That’s all he is, all he will ever be.

He’s long known that protecting Arthur could cost him his life.

He hadn’t realised it was taking his soul as well.

“I’m not one of you.”

Kara’s eyes narrow. “No,” she says, the words hoarse out of her throat. “You’re...worse. _Traitor_.”

He has to laugh at that, the sound ripping from his lungs viciously, filling the air. Kara flinches back. “I can’t betray a people I was never promised to.”

“Those of us with magic should stick together.”

“That is not my destiny,” Merlin said, gentle.

All Kara can do before she dies is gasp.

_Arthur isn’t going to die._

Distantly, Merlin hears the clatter of armour and the clink of chainmail; his magic warns him of approaching danger.

He doesn’t move, just kneeling on the ground as he stares down at the face of the woman he killed on behalf of his king.

She’s not the first; if Mordred doesn’t kill him, then Merlin doubts she’ll be the last.

_Arthur isn’t going to die._

Voices murmur, but it’s like he’s underwater; every sound is muffled.

“ _Merlin_ ,” a voice says, and there’s enough shock and horror and fear and pain and anger in it, and it’s familiar enough that Merlin turns.

Leon is stood at the entrance to the cell, his mouth gaping open as he stares and stares and stares.

A sea of red uniforms and shining helmets blurs behind him, but Merlin only has eyes for the man who thought he knew him.

“What have you _done_?”

It takes a moment to puzzle the words together, to work out what Leon is saying. It takes another moment to form a response.

A response that will make Mordred blame _him_ , and not Arthur.

Never Arthur.

“I hated her,” he whispers out. When he realises that no one’s heard him, he speaks again, louder this time. “I hated her. And everything she stood for. Druids are—druids are leaving to Morgana, and Arthur does nothing. He lets them go. He doesn’t punish them for—for taking what they want with their magic.”

The lies aren’t as hard as they should be. This isn’t the first time he’s had to use them.

“There’s no place for magic in Camelot.”

“She wasn’t yours to kill,” Leon says.

Merlin resists the laugh because—that won’t sell his lie.

 _They’re always mine to kill,_ he thinks.

“I don’t care,” he says, gets to his feet. Absently, he realises that his clothes are soaked with blood. That his hands are dripping with it. “Arthur would have let her go. He’s too—he’s too sympathetic. _Pathetic_.”

Leon physically recoils, taking steps back even as he draws his sword. “Who are you?”

“I’m Merlin, silly.”

“Who are you,” Leon repeats; demands, “and what have you done with Merlin?”

Merlin laughs then, and the sound is a gruesome one. It bounces off the walls, just a pitch off natural, and some of the assembled guards shiver. “You think this isn’t me?”

“Merlin would never kill someone,” Leon says, drawing his sword. It hisses in its sheath, leather against polished metal. His eyes narrow, and then he points it toward Merlin. “Who are you?”

“I’ve killed,” Merlin says.

He didn’t think he’d ever be saying this to one of the knights. Thought that a united Albion would mean free magic, and he could finally forget all he’d done in its name.

But—he can’t. He sees that now.

“I’ve killed _mountains_. More—more than you can imagine. Every sorcerer I’ve _found_.”

Horror curls, horror that originates from a familiar source, and Merlin lets his smile show when Mordred shoves past Leon to slam him into the cell wall.

“What did you _do_?”

Merlin laughs again, throwing his head back. It slams into the cold stone with a thud. He barely feels it. “Isn’t it _obvious_ , Mordred? Isn’t it what you _expected_?”

Mordred snarls, yanking the knife from Kara’s cooling body and pressing it to Merlin’s throat only—vulnerability flashes in Mordred’s gaze, and his grip loosens on the blade. “Never,” Mordred whispers, stumbling a step back. “You—why did you do this?”

He gestures to the body with his hand; doesn’t dare look.

“This isn’t—this isn’t you. This isn’t who you’re supposed to be.”

Those words make anger prickle under Merlin’s skin, anger that courses through his body until his fists clench and his teeth bare in a snarl. “What do _you_ know about who I’m supposed to be?”

When he takes a step forward, Mordred takes a step backward, fear clear in eyes that are beginning to shine with tears.

“I thought…”

“You thought _nothing_ ,” Merlin growls. “You _wanted_. You all want, want, want, but _this is the only thing I have left to give_.”

“Merlin!” a new voice shouts, and—

That’s Arthur.

Breath hisses out of Merlin like he’s been punched, and he stumbles a step back, towards the wall, away from the anger that’s stark in every line of Arthur’s face.

“Who’s doing this to you?” he demands, striding into the cell; Gwaine, following close behind him, pulls Mordred away.

Distantly, Merlin’s aware that the guards are leaving until—until the only people left are the knights. The people who trusted him.

The people pointing swords at him.

“No one’s doing this to me,” he whispers.

Every pretence wants to fall away under Arthur’s gaze, and he deflates; sinks to the ground.

“Merlin would never kill an unarmed woman,” Arthur says, and pulls his sword out to rest at Merlin’s throat. “I’ll ask one more time: _who are you_?”

Merlin shakes his head, ignores the blood that beads when the metal slices the surface of his skin. Something wet brushes his face and he reaches a hand up to find—

 _Oh._ He’s crying.

“The first time I met you,” Merlin begins, staring at his king’s worn boots; he hasn’t polished them in too long, “you were throwing knives at a servant. I confronted you, and you had me locked up.”

Arthur flinches back, but his grip on his sword doesn’t waver.

“What does that prove?” he demands.

Merlin continues regardless. “The second time, you chased me through town with a mace. I knocked you to the ground. I saved your life at the feast and your father made me your servant. I’ve been by your side for ten years—”

“That’s not _true_ ,” Arthur says, shouts, whispers.

Does it really matter?

“How can you know that?” he demands. “You weren’t there, you _aren’t Merlin_.”

In that moment, Merlin wants to tell the truth, tell Arthur that he’s lying, he’s lying, _he’s lying_. But he can’t.

“I was there, Arthur. I was there for all of it.” He hesitates, glances at Mordred. The druid is confused more than angry, and he needs to be _furious_ with Merlin; enough that he forgives Arthur. But he’s also the only one here who knows who Merlin is, and wouldn’t understand when he says he hates magic. Merlin wonders how much he’s willing to give up for this one, final scheme.

 _Everything_. If this saves Arthur, he will give up _everything_.

“But you weren’t there for all of me,” Merlin says. “You weren’t there when I-I killed the man who cured your sister, simply because he had magic. You weren’t there when I slaughtered a sorceress who refused to give me what I wanted. You never knew that _I_ was the one who led your father’s men to a camp of helpless druids. I wasn’t going to come, that night with the druid boy, because I wanted him to _die_.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin sees Mordred pale and stumble back, falling against Percival; feels his magic curl up into a tight, protective ball.

And—the worst part is that most of these stories are true. Merlin’s done all those things, he’s just framing them in a different light. But it’s enough to make Arthur look at him in horror.

“I have done—everything in my power to kill those with magic,” Merlin says. “Everything to-to make you _hate_ it. I have known things I never told you, and told you things that were never true.”

“But…” Arthur is staring at him, wide eyes too bright against ashen cheeks. His hand trembles, and he has to readjust his hold on Excalibur. “You…”

Something is _aching_ , deep in Merlin’s chest, but he ignores it. Pushes on. This isn’t the time for—feelings. Because he has a responsibility to protect Arthur and—

Who ever said he needed to be around to see a land with free magic?

“You have killed so many in the name of your hatred and fear. But you know what? _I_ was the reason. I was the one who kept you hating it.”

Merlin grits his teeth, forces down his horror, and says:

“I killed this girl because she has magic. And—that’s my secret. The one you’ve always asked me about.”

“What?” Mordred’s whisper comes from a good few metres away, but Merlin can hear it crystal clear.

“That can’t be true,” Arthur says. “You—you—” He’s grasping for straws, anything to prove Merlin’s lying. “Your friend was a sorcerer. You were friends with that sorcerer, from Ealdor.”

 _Will_.

Merlin hates to taint their friendship, to make it seem anything less than the beautiful thing it was, but—

_Anything for Arthur_.

“And he _died_ ,” Merlin hisses out. “Why do you think _that_ was?”

Arthur gapes at him, his sword clattering to the ground as he stumbles back. Leon darts forward to catch him and—that should be Merlin there, holding his king up.

But he’s giving that away.

“This girl” --Merlin jerks a thumb at Kara’s body-- “was a druid, and she was sent here by Morgana to deceive your knights and trick them away. So I killed her.

“Because—at my very core, I—I hate magic.” He glances at Mordred, whose disbelief is still too strong. “It has taken everything from me.”

Gwaine steps forward, opens his mouth, but Merlin presses on.

“My father died, because of magic. My mother kept me locked inside for half my childhood, because of magic. My first love died, because of magic. _Lancelot_ was killed, because of magic. _Elyan_ was killed, because of magic. I _despise_ it. With all that I am.”

And—that’s enough truths to convince Mordred.

 _Thank every god out there_.

The young druid throws himself forward, tries to get past Leon and Arthur, as his face twists into a snarl.

“I hate you,” he shouts, trying to get to Merlin. “I hate you, I hate you, _I_ _hate_ _you_.”

Merlin just smirks at him, pretends his heart isn’t slowly cracking into a million pieces. “Since when have I cared what you thought of me?”

Arthur swallows, says, “I want him gone. By nightfall.”

 _Gone_. The word clangs through Merlin, cuts off his next words. _Gone_.

“He can’t—he can’t be here,” Arthur continues. “Not with all that he’s done.”

“Hold on, princess,” Gwaine says, frowning. He steps forward, holds a hand out as Percival moves to enter the cell, to do what Arthur’s told him to. “You don’t _believe_ him, do you?”

“Haven’t you heard what he’s been saying?”

Gwaine shakes his head, a look of disbelief on his face. “But—it’s _Merlin_. He wouldn’t hurt anyone if he didn’t have to.”

“He’s killed this druid girl,” Arthur says, gestures to the body on the floor. “He’s still dripping in her blood. He didn’t have to kill her; she was set to die tomorrow anyway.”

Merlin barks a laugh, and most of the knights whirl on him, hands going to their swords. Mordred just flinches.

“You wouldn’t have gone through with it,” Merlin says. “You’re weak-hearted, Arthur, despite my best efforts. Barely have what it takes to kill a sorcerer.”

“You’re _wrong_ ,” Arthur says, but Merlin just chuckles to himself and shakes his head again.

“‘To die tomorrow anyway’,” he repeated mockingly. “Ha! As if.”

Arthur stares at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, before he stutters out, “I want him gone.”

Even Gwaine is staring at him in horror now, and Percival and Leon too.

“ _Now_ ,” Arthur snaps when no one follows his command.

They jump to it, and slowly drag Merlin out of the dungeons and to a horse.

And then he is gone, riding away from the only place he has called home for the last ten years.

_But Arthur’s going to live_.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed reading! please give kudos/comment if you did


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